


Family Secrets

by Songspinner



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: (no direct racism but it's referenced), Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, F/M, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Racism, Wakes & Funerals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-11
Updated: 2020-06-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:22:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24666802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Songspinner/pseuds/Songspinner
Summary: Duke Oswald von Riegan is dead. Hilda helps Claude come to terms with his new responsibilities and discover a few more pieces of his grandfather's life that are now his to deal with.
Relationships: Hilda Valentine Goneril/Claude von Riegan
Comments: 4
Kudos: 35
Collections: Hilclaude Week 2020





	Family Secrets

**Author's Note:**

> Hilclaude Week 2020 Day 4: Family/Secret Agent AU
> 
> This one covers him telling her about his origins, too, like day 1; but this scene takes place in Crimson Flower, rather than in that AU.
> 
> This was written in collaboration with a friend who writes an amazing Hilda to my Claude (but she isn't on twitter or ao3 so I can't tag her). I hope you enjoy!

Duke Riegan is dead.

That's the long and short of it, but true to Fódlan's many elaborate noble traditions, the funeral alone takes hours and Claude is expected to speak. Which he does, although he's only known Oswald von Riegan for two years and change. Frankly, any one of the other Alliance lords would have been a better choice for this job. But Claude is the man's heir, so he must speak, and he manages to make it sound like he's known his grandfather all his life to anyone who isn't poised to pick apart his every word looking for some sign of his illegitimacy or unsuitability--which practically everyone here is, so he supposes all these formalities are really just that. The nobles come together, pretend to mourn the duke, circle Claude and each other like vultures waiting for scraps of gossip, and then scurry back to their territories and start plotting ways to take advantage of the 19-year-old now sitting at the head of the roundtable. Well, Claude's ready for them. More or less.

So he endures the long ceremony at the Eastern Church's main monastery, with hymns to Seiros and readings from scripture and an interminable recitation of the saints' deeds in honor of the dead, blah blah blah... Claude tunes it all out pretty early on. He's heard enough of the Church of Seiros' dogma to last him a lifetime. He actually almost falls asleep toward the end; it's only the blaring of the pipe organ and his valet's not-so-gentle nudge that jar him back to full consciousness when the ending procession begins.

And then he endures the reception that comes afterward on the grounds of the Riegan estate, at which he's expected to be poised and perfect and open to hearing all the lords' grievances even while they're telling him how sorry they are for his loss. To be respectful of the dead but ready to take up the reins immediately; to mourn _just enough_ without being unseemly about it. To ensure he doesn't accidentally (or purposefully) neglect to speak to anyone important enough to demand a moment of the new duke's time. Eventually, as people start to slowly trickle out, he manages to take a moment to himself, slipping out of the manor and into the courtyard for a breath of fresh air. He wanders aimlessly, hands stuffed into his pockets. Not a very duke-like posture, he thinks, but right now he absolutely could not care less.

* * *

The last six months have been miserable, albeit not at all in the way Hilda expected them to be. When she pictured war in the past, the images that came to mind were always bloodied battlefields, two armies colliding and fighting tooth and nail until there was a clear victor. The Imperial invasion of the monastery certainly fit the bill, and she assumed that would set the tone for the foreseeable future. What she didn't account for was this being a war declared on multiple fronts, and the Alliance using both that and their unconventional method of ruling to minimize their involvement. Being divided into factions that both support and oppose the Empire, they manage to maintain something resembling neutrality while the war rages in earnest in the Kingdom. They exchange grand battles for minor conflicts with their own neighbors. It's a cunning strategy, if arguably a precarious one. Their fate rests in the hands of a few squabbling nobles rather than the brute force of a single army, which makes it all too easy for something to go wrong and leave the security of their entire nation in jeopardy.

Like the Archduke dying.

It's not really that shocking, all things considered, but everyone expected him to hang on for at least another few years. Contrary to popular belief, Hilda knows this will _strengthen_ the Alliance in the end, not weaken it. Claude will make the Alliance better, she's sure of it. But having a nation at war dumped in your lap is an awful, awful thing, no matter how capable you are, and Hilda does not envy him this. He was already on a hard road, and now it's been made that much harder. The least she can do is offer her support, for what little difference it might make.

She stays by Holst's side during most of the funeral, ever playing the part of the superfluous sister. She pretends to pay attention to the proceedings but actually pays attention to the surrounding nobles instead, because gossip has become more valuable than gold since the war started. She idly wonders if they'd be singing a different hymn if Byleth had received that revelation from the Goddess instead of whatever blasphemy went down in that Holy Tomb. But it's normal funeral fare, as it is.

It's not until Hilda notices Claude's gone that she finally excuses herself and goes to look for him. "There are better places to hide, you know. Places that people won't pass by on their way out. You're just asking for someone to see you alone and swarm you like this," Hilda announces as she approaches him from behind, hands crossed behind her back.

Claude looks up and smirks at her. "You mean, like you're doing right now?"

"Exactly! You made it too easy." She motions toward the manor with a nod of her head. "Come on, you've spent more than enough time today in the public eye. Let's get out of here. Before anyone else comes along to offer their condolences for the umpteenth time."

The tension in his shoulders relaxes a bit, as though he'd just been waiting for someone to give him permission to get out of the water now that the sharks have sensed the blood in it. "You don't have to tell me twice," he says, pulling one hand out of his pocket to reach for hers. "It wouldn't be quite so exhausting if I thought any of them meant it." _Or, you know, if I were actually grieving._

Hilda takes his hand and squeezes reassuringly, prepared to lead him towards a side entrance off the beaten path (that she only knows about because of him, but who's counting). "That's the worst part of this. It's all one big show. I mean, that's nobility in a nutshell for you, but bringing a dead man into it is really something else." She shakes her head and sighs, starts walking— "Oh, wait, hold up." And stops to slip off the black stiletto heels that she wore for the occasion, picking them up with her free hand. "Okay, _now_ we can go."

He follows her readily, into the manor and through the halls. The staff are busy transferring Claude’s things to the enormous master bedroom, and packing up the late duke’s belongings for him to go through to decide what to keep and what to get rid of. “Is it weird that I’m looking forward to going through my grandfather’s things?” he asks her quietly, as they swing around a corner and end up in the doorway of Oswald von Riegan’s study. “Aren’t people supposed to dread that part?”

"I don't think so," she offers with a shrug. "It's not like he raised you. If anything, it's kind of like... A way to get to know him better, even though he's gone. You can learn a lot about a person by what they own." She opens the door of the study and peers in, standing on her tiptoes. "Letters included."

”Exactly. And he never quite let me in on everything.” He steps into the room, reflecting on how depressing Fódlan's funerals are, how quiet. At home, they _celebrate_ the dead... “At first it was deliberate, and then he ran out of time.”

Those words feel poignant for reasons Hilda can't pin down. _Is it because of regret over past mistakes? Or fear of it being a bad omen for the future? Maybe both._ "That's how it goes," she remarks in lieu of something deeper. Although... "At least it's a good example of what _not_ to do." There. That's closer to scratching the surface. She tosses her shoes into a corner of the room, confident they'll find their way back to her at one point or another, and strides up to the desk. "Now, seeing one of these not covered in books? _That's_ weird."

Claude gives her a wry smile. “Must have gotten that from my father, I guess.” He lets his eyes roam over the desk and its drawers, then pulls a small silver key out of his pocket and unlocks the first locked drawer to pull out a sheaf of papers and a small, leather-bound journal. “Looks like correspondence and...whoa.” He looks up at her from the pages of the journal. “This is encrypted.”

Hilda hops up onto the desk (some things never change) and raises a brow. "You don't say? Craftiness must run in the family. The key to decrypting it's gotta be in here too, right? Or do you think he committed it to memory?"

"It's hard to say. If he bothered to go to the trouble of encrypting it and locking it up, the key is probably difficult to find." He taps a finger on the journal in thought. "On the other hand, he bothered to write it at all and he knew I would be doing this, so I doubt he destroyed the key completely. If _I_ were to pass an encrypted journal on to my successor, where would I hide the key...it would have to be somewhere he had no reason to think anyone but me would access."

"Well... If this were a mystery novel, the desk would have some hidden compartment in it holding an item that would ultimately lead you to the key. But I doubt the real solution is that exciting or convoluted. Is there anything or anywhere else that's been off-limits until now?"

Claude frowns in thought. “Come to think of it...there’s a safe in my grandfather’s—in the master bedroom. Not that I know how to open it.”

"A safe, huh... Is it Hilda-proof? Or 'drop from a very tall building'-proof?" Is she joking or serious? Yes.

He chuckles. “Let’s find out.”

With the journal and the letters both in hand, he heads out of the study and upstairs. He pauses at the doorway to the room that, until today, was his. The staff have already moved most of his belongings over, but they apparently weren’t sure what to do with his scattered clutter of hobby paraphernalia and piles of unshelved books, some of which are still open. He doesn’t even really _want_ to move into the master bedroom, but it’s expected. It’s where the duke sleeps. And...as of today, Claude is the duke. He moves on, down the wide corridor to the tall double doors at the end of the hall, carved with an elaborate stag’s head with huge antlers and the crescent-moon Crest of House Riegan. He pushes them open and steps into the duke’s chambers. “Welcome to my new abode, Lady Goneril.” He gives her an exaggerated bow to usher her inside.

His pause does not go unnoticed. Much as Hilda might chide Claude for his mess, the truth is she wouldn't have him any other way. She's come to appreciate how his bedroom feels lived in, evidence of his interests on full display. His new room will surely feel that way too, given enough time. This is just...an adjustment period. A very strange adjustment period. That involves getting used to staring down deer every time she wants to see him. "Thank you _ever_ so much, Your Grace." An embellished curtsy and wide grin accompany her words as she lets herself in. It's meant to be tongue-in-cheek, but she can't help but follow it up by muttering, "Yep. Still not used to that." She moves on easily enough, though, striding forward to the center of the room and spinning in place to survey everything. "It's so big! What are you even going to do with this much space?"

What a good question. The actual answer is probably ‘nothing,’ because he’s unlikely to spend much time in this room unless Hilda is here. But in the spirit of keeping things light, he grins. “Oh, I’m sure I can fit a whole library full of books on the floor.”

"That's what libraries are for, you know," Hilda teases him fondly, rolling her eyes for show, and resolves to bring her perfume by later. Or is that disrespectful of the dead? She'll have to ask him. _Her_ opinion is that reminders of his grandfather are already everywhere and he doesn't need any more hanging over his head and invading his senses, but it's not her call to make.

Claude takes a slow circuit around the room, taking everything in. He’s been in here before, but only a few times, mostly when his grandfather was especially ill. The room still smells like the old man, all old-fashioned cologne and the particular oil he used in his hair, sunlight and dust. “...okay.” He arrives finally at the painting of his great-grandmother, Cecilia von Riegan, who was the first Alliance leader to open trade with Morfis. It’s suitably inspiring, but he carefully takes it down from the wall to expose the safe embedded in the stone behind it. “I don’t suppose you happened to bring an axe?”

Hilda stares openly, surprised in spite of his _just_ having found a coded journal minutes prior, and remembers to pick her jaw up before responding. "Not on my person, but I do have Freikugel in–- my room." It's not _her_ room, not really. More like the guest room she keeps most of her things in when she's here, save for a few personal belongings that have started accruing elsewhere. That's a mouthful and stirs weird feelings besides, so she keeps it concise, if not wholly accurate. "Want me to go get it?"

"Sheesh, no thanks--I'd rather still have four walls in this room when we're done."

"Hey! I can be delicate. And there's plenty of swinging room in here." Not that she's eager to do it, but she wants to establish that she _could_. If she needed to. Her relief at not having to put forth extra effort wins out over the unintentional reverse psychology in the end, so she shrugs and strides towards the massive bed, flopping onto it and making herself comfortable.

He frowns at the safe, thinking. "If I'd known him better, I might be able to guess at the combination. As it is...well, if he intended for me to open this, maybe I can, after all."

"Fine, have it your way. Do your thing." She wiggles her fingers at him and busies herself with counting the ridiculous number of decorative pillows she's swimming in while he, well. Does his thing.

Claude steps closer and starts turning the dial, trying a few important dates and numbers he can think of. The first few don't work, but then, after a moment's hesitation, he tries 0812...8 Ethereal Moon, the day Claude arrived from across the border. The day Oswald discovered he had an heir after all. One telltale click later, the safe door is swinging open. "Bingo." Still casual, but a bit quieter.

Hilda's head perks up and she cranes her neck like it will magically allow her to see what's inside the safe from this angle. (It does not.) "That didn't take long. What's in there?"

He reaches in to pull out the safe’s contents: a few pieces of parchment, a gold locket, and a silver ring bearing a glittering topaz. He regards the ring for a moment and quickly pockets it before Hilda can see it, then brings the rest over to the bed and sits down. “Let’s find out,” he says, picking up the locket carefully and opening it. Inside are two small portraits, one on either side; on one side is a much younger Oswald von Riegan and a teenage girl with familiar green eyes, while on the other is an unfamiliar woman and a slightly older teenage boy. “Huh, look at that.”

Hilda shoves some pillows out of the way and sits up properly, joining him at his side and peering down at the locket. "Oh, wow, this is really well-made." Why yes, that is the first detail she notices. Jeweler brain jumped out. "That's Oswald, right? So then... Who are the others? I know they're relatives, obviously, and I could make some educated guesses, but I'd rather you tell me."

”I’m pretty sure that’s my grandmother and my uncle Godfrey on this side,” he points. “And over here with my grandfather...that’s my mother.” He gives the portraits a long look. The artist captured Tiana’s defiant, bold gaze perfectly; Godfrey seems a more solemn sort, judging by the painting. It’s a little surreal to see his mother in this context, as part of a totally different family he never knew growing up.

"Ah, the legendary lady herself. How did you describe her? A warrior goddess, was it? She looks fierce, even at that age." A soft smile as she quietly adds, "I can see the resemblance. You have her eyes." From what she can tell, anyway. It's a small picture, but it is lovingly detailed.

”I sure do.” No matter how hard he wished when he was younger that he didn’t. “I suppose I should probably write to her and let her know about my grandfather’s death. And my new title, heh.” A title she rejected. Would she want to come and visit, now that her father and all his expectations and bitterness are gone? To see her son take up the mantle of the Alliance’s leadership, during a time of such tumult? Or—more likely, he thinks—she’ll stay right where she is and watch from afar, evaluating his every move, judging his decisions, his strengths and weaknesses.

"Probably," Hilda affirms and rests her head on his shoulder. "But not now. Later. Spread all of this out a bit." She pokes his arm, hoping to draw him out of his thoughts. She doesn't know what he's thinking about, exactly, only that his mind is either recalling the past or looking to possible futures. She wants him in the present. "You have a code to crack, remember?"

”Right, of course.” He closes the locket and sets it aside in favor of the small sheaf of parchment. The top several documents appear to be copies of the original charters that confirmed House Riegan as the head of the Alliance roundtable after the Crescent Moon War and redefined the boundaries of the various lords’ territories. But he strikes gold with the very last sheet: the key to the code. “Ah ha! Jackpot.”

"There you go! Mystery solved." She flicks the edge of the paper with her fingers. "How long will it take you to get through the journal with that?"

He takes a minute or two to examine the key and flip through the journal's pages. "Probably not more than a few hours."

"Sounds like good reading time to me." She can spend a few hours curled up with a book while he works, easy. She has to take her leisure when and where she can get it, these days. "Do you want to start on that now? Or keep looking to see if ol' Oswald left any other surprises lying around?"

"Come on, Hilda, you know me better than that. You really think I could focus on anything else with a mystery like this right here in my hand, ripe for solving?" He holds up the journal and wiggles it a little.

She laughs and pats his knee. "I don't, but I had to ask." An affectionate squeeze before she remembers to bring up, "Did you eat at the reception? I'm not letting you skip meals over this."

"Eat? Oh. Uh..." He gives her a sheepish smile. "I had a glass of wine?"

That earns him a heavy eye roll and exasperated, " _Claude..._ " She forces herself to stand and immediately misses being off her feet. Stilettos are saved for special occasions for a reason. "Should I have the food sent here, or do you need to do this in the study?"

Claude stands too, papers and journal and locket all in hand. "Let's go back down to the study. This will be easier with a desk to spread things out on, and I'll need paper. If you're hungry, feel free to join me, though I can't promise to be very exciting company. ;)" So saying, he heads out into the hall.

"I'll find some way to entertain myself, don't you worry." She grins at him and splits off to flag someone down who can have food prepared and sent their way. Something not messy, she specifies, mindful of keeping the paper clean. Along with a bottle of wine for her, because entertaining herself in this instance means taking up the entire couch in the study with a book, a blanket and a glass.

Claude soon ensconces himself behind the desk to begin his eager decoding, losing himself quickly in the painstaking work and transcribing each page as he goes along. Hilda checks in periodically to make sure he _actually_ eats, but otherwise leaves him be. He's going to keep at it until he's finished, she knows from experience, so she only sees fit to intervene when it crosses over into being detrimental.

It’s dark outside by the time he’s finished, finally setting down his quill and gathering up the pages he’s scribbled on to look them over. He’s mostly absorbed their contents by now, but he gives them all one last skim to make sure he hasn’t missed anything before bringing them over to where Hilda’s lounging and picking up her feet with one hand so he can sit down and put them across his lap. His expression is somewhere between intrigued and grim. “Well, I’ll say this: it was worth it.”

She's nearly dozed off once all is said and done, book laying forgotten atop her chest. His moving rouses her, brings her back to the world of the living, and she sits up to regard him wearily. "Yeah?" If his words aren't enough to give her pause, his expression certainly is. She sits up straighter and bites back a yawn, wills the cogs in her brain to start moving faster. "That's vague. And concerning. Can I get a summary?"

”At the risk of being vague again, it’s an account of all the intel my grandfather was collecting on enemies of House Riegan. Notice I didn’t say enemies of the _Alliance_.”

"Oh, shit." She finds herself biting her lip for an entirely different reason now, her brow furrowing. "Enemies like...past or present tense?"

”Both, I’m afraid.”

"Of course. I don't know why I bothered to ask." Hilda lets gravity take her and falls back on the couch with a groan, staring up at the ceiling. "Anything condemning enough to take action against them outright? Or is this a 'bide your time and make moves under the table' kind of situation?"

"In most cases, definitely the latter. One of our chief offenders appears to be House Gloucester. Shocking, I know." He hands her the sheaf of papers as he talks. "It apparently had a hand not only in my uncle's death and, most likely, my grandfather's death, but in the mysterious deaths of Riegan scions for generations."

"What the fuck?" She takes the papers and holds them directly in front of her face, hurriedly skimming them. The righteous fury beginning to boil in the pit of her stomach makes it hard to concentrate. " _Generations?_ I always knew Count Gloucester was a creep, but this is..." She trails off as her mind takes a sharp detour and peeks up at him over the papers. "You don't think Lorenz—?"

"I'd like to say no, but I honestly don't know." Then his frown deepens. "And the so-called 'accident' that killed Raphael's parents was, in fact, the same so-called 'accident' that killed my uncle. They were just...collateral damage." He doesn't bother trying to keep his anger out of his tone, now--he feels it more acutely over Raphael's parents than about the rest of this.

"Goddess." She sits up fully and swings her legs over the side of the couch. The papers are set aside for now so she doesn't accidentally take her wrath out on them; she balls her hands into tight fists in her lap instead, gripping at the fabric of her skirt with her head bowed. Her hair hangs in front of her face like a curtain. "Are you sure we can't kill him?" Quietly. "The count. I could make it look like an accident. Probably. I don't know." A deep breath. "He deserves worse."

Claude shifts on the couch to look at her more closely. He's never heard her talk like this before. _Is she...surprised?_ "That would just perpetuate a cycle I'd rather see ended," he says, just as quietly. "Maybe that makes me a coward, I don't know. What I do know is that if--no, _when_ \--House Gloucester comes for me, I'll be ready. It will be far from the first time I've been a target."

"And letting him live _doesn't_ perpetuate it?" She squeezes her eyes shut, tries to stay composed. "We're already at war. You shouldn't have to put up with your own _neighbors_ trying to stab you in the back, too. It's not right." _Pull it together, Goneril._ She moves her hair out of the way and makes herself meet his gaze, eyes glassy but determined. "I know that just... comes with the territory. I get it. That doesn't mean I have to like it." And because it makes dealing with this easier, she forces a weak smile and reaches for his hand. "I want you to stick around, you know? That's all. I'll get over it."

Claude has to remind himself occasionally that Fódlan's nobility raises its children to be sheltered and ignorant of the wider world on _purpose_. That Hilda has never in her life had to deal with assassins, or struggling for survival, or baseless hatred for nothing more than happening to be a particular person's child. He puts on a smile he doesn't feel, to ease her mind. "Of course I don't expect you to like it. I don't like it either, but my ambitions are much bigger than one more narrow-minded, petty noble. The Gloucesters of the world have never succeeded in getting rid of me before, and they won't now." He squeezes her hand. "I promise."

The smile makes Hilda feel _worse_ , not better. She doesn't want him to pretend with her, hypocritical as that may be. But she believes his words, believes in _him_ , and that does bring her some measure of comfort, however slight. "Good." A small, relieved nod. "Just don't think you have to face them alone, okay? I want to stay by your side. Even if that means cutting down a hundred Gloucesters. I have a big axe, I can do it." She moves her free hand to the back of his head, threading her fingers through his hair and encouraging him to bend down a little so she can rest her forehead against his. "I _will_ need a nice, long vacation afterwards, but that's negotiable."

His smile turns wry as he obliges, and in the process turns slightly more genuine, too. "Duly noted." He pulls back a little to pick up her hand and press it to his lips. "And I'll be glad to have you by my side. Big axe and all." At least until the war is over and the Alliance is stable. After that...well, he'll have to come up with a few contingencies. Just in case.

"I should hope so." Her tone grows more teasing, though her smile only turns softer at the gesture. She scoots over and sits herself right in his lap, still fiddling with his hair. Which she brings up almost absentmindedly, growing more at ease as her indignation ebbs away. "Your hair's gotten so long lately. Not sure if it's intentional or not, but I like it. Looks good on you."

His arms wind loosely around her waist as she makes herself comfortable in her new seat, and he leans back. "Thanks. It's half-intentional, I guess. Part wanting a change, part not feeling like I have the time to worry about things like trimming my hair." The thought reminds him, though...he brings up a hand to lightly pull his braid into his own vision, looking down at it. It, too, is longer. "Speaking of change...I suppose as of today, it's time for a different kind of haircut."

The idea of doing it himself, here in Fódlan, instead of one of his parents or Nader doing it for him in the throne room with the eyes of the court watching the affirmation that he proved his worth in inheritance...it makes him feel a little empty. A little homesick, which is almost never something he lets himself feel. What he's inherited today just fell into his lap; he hasn't proven a thing. It wouldn't be so bad if Teach could perform the ceremony, maybe, but...they're gone. Judith would probably do it, if he asked. He might ask. He might not.

"Huh?" Hilda blinks up at him, follows his line of sight, and gasps as she connects the dots. Or half of them, anyway. While she recognizes the intent, the meaning behind it is lost on her. "No! Not your braid? But it's so... You!"

Claude doesn't tease or joke as he usually might, instead fixing her with a thoughtful look. Sure, he promised her he wouldn't let himself get assassinated, and he meant it--at least, as far as anyone can mean such a thing. But things happen. Things have, apparently, _been_ happening to the Riegan family for decades, at least. Count Gloucester might be an arrogant blowhard with a gigantic ego, but he's also been playing this game in the Alliance for far longer than Claude's even been alive. Oswald von Riegan was a canny, clever old man, not some naive pushover. So yes, the worst could absolutely happen. He can't be vigilant 24/7. He can't live his life trusting no one forever--he's going to need allies, friends even, to make his dream a reality. And he meant it, too, when he said he'd be glad to have Hilda by his side for all that. The ring he pocketed is a strange sort of sign pointing toward something he hadn't quite let himself consciously consider until he saw it there in the safe. And if he does fall, he doesn't want Hilda to have to play the kinds of games he's playing now to put together the pieces of his life after the fact to figure out what he was living for. And if he _doesn't_ , he wants her to walk into the future with her eyes open. He wants her to _want_ that future, with full disclosure, with all it entails. All the danger and sacrifice and hard work it's going to require. And although she likes to pretend she hates hard work, he believes that someday she'll care enough that it won't feel like work to her. So she really ought to know. And if she can't accept it, well...better to know now than later, right?

"...Hilda, do you know where I was born?"

Claude's stare stuns her into silence. This feels like a puzzle he wants her to solve. Which means... she must have all the pieces she needs to solve it already, right? He wouldn't ask this of her, otherwise. He's always so good about that, never expecting more than she can give. She casts her mind back, pushing through the haze of her slight buzz and fatigue. "Not here?" she offers unhelpfully, at first. He quirks an eyebrow but says nothing; he can see she's not giving up just yet.

 _Think, Hilda, think..._ She throws a wider net, sorts through memories she's buried both accidentally and intentionally. If it's not here, and it's significant enough to warrant asking... All the signs point to one place. _...Oh._ "I think I do," comes the quiet admission a minute later. "But you should say it so I don't sound like an idiot if I'm wrong. Although I think I'm _more_ of an idiot for not figuring it out sooner if I'm right." A hint of self-deprecating laughter. "Why didn't you say something earlier? Why now?"

 _Well, she hasn't reacted with shock or disgust yet..._ "...all right." His tone becomes a bit formal, as though he's telling a story. "I was born in Almyra. My mother is Tiana von Riegan, who vanished without a word to follow her heart across the mountains' forbidden border and marry the man she loved. I grew up there, until I ran away from home at the age of sixteen to claim the birthright my mother didn't want." He finally breaks eye contact to lean his head back against the couch cushions, eyes trained on the ceiling instead. "And I'm saying it now because I don't want to live to regret keeping you in the dark. For good or for ill."

"That's what I thought." She exhales and says nothing more while she slots this information into place and tries to figure out what to do with it. It's almost surprising how not-surprising this is. Likely because she already knew on some level, or at least suspected. Which makes this even worse, doesn't it? She was so eager to take the path of least resistance that she didn't stop to consider how it would affect him. _Him_ , the very person she's fallen head over heels for. What a fool she's been.

"It doesn't change what I think of you, if that's what you're worried about," she eventually says, resting her head against his chest. Her voice is uneasy, but it's not because of him, as she makes clear soon enough. "Mostly, it... it just changes what I think of _myself_. Knowing that I repeated whatever dumb shit I heard without thinking twice about it and... probably hurt you in the process. That's the last thing I want." She angles her head so she can look up at him. "You're the same person you were a minute ago, as far as I'm concerned. I'm just sorry I gave you reason to think I would feel otherwise."

But, Claude thinks, he's _not_ quite the same person as the boy who left Almyra to find a new path toward his dreams. He has changed, and sometimes he's not sure it's all been for the better. Claude von Riegan is better at many things than Khalid was, but expressing himself sincerely isn't one of them, and the walls he's put up for himself work both ways. Then again, Hilda has changed too since he first met her, and that change has _definitely_ been for the better. She's blossomed like a flower, grown into someone who really does care about things with all her heart, someone more open-minded and empathetic, and more willing to fight for what she believes in. Hearing that in this way, too, she's matured and grown, is a serious weight off his shoulders. It doesn't erase the very real pain of the things she's said in the past--it's not exactly a drop in the bucket when it comes from someone you love--but it does mean he can start to move past them.

"Thanks, Hilda. That means a lot." A pause. "It's not just about me, though. I..." He sighs. "Never mind. That can wait. Anyway, to answer your question," he lifts his braid back up between his fingers again. "It's an Almyran tradition for nobles to wear braids like this until they've proven themselves worthy of their inheritance and risen in status. It's a symbol first of your fate being entwined with something greater than yourself, and then of taking control of your own destiny, rising above it as the commander of the destinies of others instead." He gestures to the room around them with one hand. "And since all this is mine now, so is the burden of the Alliance's fate. That means it's time." He mimes snipping the brain with two fingers, though the ceremony itself is much more involved, of course.

Hilda wants to ask what else it could possibly be about, but she's put her foot in her mouth enough already. If he says it can wait, she'll follow his lead. "An Almyran noble tradition, huh? You have a title there, too?" Hilda quips easily. There are other plausible explanations, of course. She just singled out the easiest one. Trying to keep things light and conversational, prove her point that this information won't impact their dynamic negatively.

It seems like an idle question, but it sparks an unreasoning spike of anxiety, of dread, in him--did she know all along? is she playing with him?. But his conscious mind snuffs out those thoughts with vicious force. He trusts her, and this instinct is starting to get in his way. The conclusion is obvious from the way he chose his words, in retrospect, and so what if she knows he's nobility in both countries? There are a lot of nobles out there. He could be the third son of some minor lord, for all she knows. He could be anyone.

He lets her move on without addressing it, which she does, breezing right past it without giving it a second thought for now. "It is a touching sentiment..." If an incredibly intimidating one - commanding the destinies of others sounds like her worst nightmare. "But I really will miss this." She thumbs at his braid.

"I'll miss it too." For more reasons than one. Sure, aesthetically he considers it a part of him, he's used to seeing it in the mirror every day and his little morning ritual of brushing it out and rebraiding it is a familiar comfort. But more than that, it's the last outward part of him that really is still _Khalid_. He learned to braid his own hair when he was five years old. Wearing the style here in Fódlan was a quiet act of defiance, in a way--the one way in which he refused to hide, to become someone else. Cutting it now feels like fully abandoning that part of his life and stepping entirely into Claude's shoes. He's not sure how to feel about that.

"When are you going to cut it?"

"Whenever I decide whether I want to ask Judith to perform the ceremony with me, or do it myself."

"There's a ceremony?" Hilda scolds herself internally as soon as she asks. Of _course_ there's more to it than cutting off the braid and calling it a day. Meaningful traditions get meaningful endings, not mundane ones. _Stupid question._ She wishes she knew the right thing to say or do, but given that she just learned everything she thought she knew about Almyrans is probably wrong... She's kind of flying blind, here. The best she can do is try to be open and respectful in her own Hilda way. "Do you think she'd say no? Or is doing it by yourself customary or something?"

The questions serve to relax him just a little. If she's asking questions, that means she wants to know more. She's _interested_ , and that's more than he can say for most of the people he's met in Fódlan. "I don't think she'd say no. It would even be appropriate--it's supposed to be the one you're inheriting from who performs it, or failing that, someone else who's supported your rise. And she certainly has done that." He shrugs, trying again to push this sudden onset of homesickness down. "She doesn't speak Almyran, though, so I'd have to recite all the ritual language myself anyway. And...it's also supposed to be done by someone who's recognized you as worthy of the position, someone with the authority and judgment to attest to all the rest of the nobles that you earned your place. Which, you know, I didn't."

"Hey, that's not true." She sits up straight so she can peer at him, brow furrowed. "I mean, yeah, you inherited it, but you _earned_ your inheritance. You've been partially leading the Alliance for a while, now. Not to speak ill of the dead or anything, but if it weren't for you, I'm pretty sure the Empire would have eaten us for breakfast already." She prods his chest to punctuate her next statement. "You're a good leader. No matter what certain nobles that shall not be named think."

Claude looks at her thoughtfully. “I suppose you’re right. It’s not exactly the same kind of thing as the way I’d have earned my title back home, but...I did it the Fódlan way instead. Heh.” The smile he gives her is genuine, now; he has to admit that finally having someone closeby he can talk to about these things feels like another weight off his shoulders. Sharing secrets means getting a new perspective on them, and after all, isn’t that what he came to Fódlan for in the first place?

"Exactly!" Getting a genuine smile out of him after today makes Hilda feel like she's earned something, herself. She tries to bite back her own proud grin, and when that fails she reclaims her resting spot against his chest and buries her face in his shirt instead. "And now... It sounds like it's time to do things the Almyran way." There's a sentence she never thought she'd say. First time for everything. "So. I say you ask her. Ask someone, at least. I know this isn't something you can go around shouting from the rooftops, but you should share it with the people you're able to. That's what I think, anyway."

He slips his arms back around her and finds himself relaxing a little more, one hand resting at the small of her back and the other carding through her hair almost idly. "You're right. As usual. And without my grandfather around, Judith is just about the only person left this side of Fódlan's Throat that I could ask, so that's what I'll do." He really hadn't expected to have this conversation with Hilda today. But it's an almost comforting distraction from the funeral and his new responsibilities, and this godsforsaken war that Oswald's death has dropped into his lap. At least this sort of uncertainty isn't new.

Besides, it isn't as though he has many opportunities to talk about his homeland...maybe she'd enjoy it, too. He's not obliged to educate her, certainly, but in this case he doesn't mind. The more facts she hears straight from him, the less she'll have to rely on whatever nonsense she's learned over the years. If he's going to tear down walls, he should start with those that stand between him and the woman he loves. "I'm sure you have about a million questions. I would, if I were you." He leans forward just a little to rest his chin on the crown of her head. "You can ask them, if you like. There may be some I still can't really answer, but...I want you to feel comfortable asking. And, to be honest, _I_ want to feel more comfortable talking to you about this."

"I'm...I'm glad. And I will, but I think I need some time to sort them out in my mind, you know?" She relaxes a bit more against him. "Besides, you're under enough pressure today. You deserve a break."

"You're right, I do." Claude smirks. "Good thing you had this bottle of wine brought in. I think I'll start there..." Leaning back again, now, he tips her chin up with a finger and leans down for a slow, indulgent kiss. "...and here."

"Mmm..." Hilda sighs. "You always come up with the best plans."


End file.
